


Nightmares

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Captive, Graphic Description of Corpses, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Sexual Bondage, Other, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Torture, War, penology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 21:32:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1362448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apologies, this work is currently incomplete. Please check back later, or read on anyways. Again, it isn't done, so you won't be getting the full thing right now. Read if you want to tease yourself with it I guess. [Updated April 22]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

The metal seemed to eat at his wrists, corroding the skin until there was nothing but bloody ribbon wrapped around strained muscle. The flickering light irritated the pupil into dilating to let in the rays and then struggling to shut them out. So much sweat and dirt caked itself over every crevasse that there were sure to be infections in the cuts, for they wouldn’t sting so often if there weren’t.

The scratches of rats scurrying around in the walls was the worst part, because whether there were rats or not that scratching sound was all he could hear when he was left alone. There were no screams of other captives, no chattering outside the door between captors, not a sound other than the buzz of a flickering light and the scratching of rats that may not have even been there. The stains on the walls were the most fun when he was alone though; they were the best way to distract from the scratching buzz.

_So many stains dried onto the walls._ Some were browned with age and others he knew to be fresh. He would count how many there where and try focusing on one in particular and try to figure out what monstrosity caused it to appear there. Perhaps there was slashing and that was how the pattern over there formed. Perhaps a captive shit themselves and that’s how one on the floor corner were made, or maybe the particular captive bleed out and no one bothered cleaning. No one ever bothered cleaning in this god forsaken hole.

_-Its better you see the stains. Better you see what you’ll be remembered as. Better you wonder if sometime in the future someone will be starring at the stains you made and they’ll play the same sick, distracting game just to get away from the horror…-_

The mind can only take so much distraction though. He would get _tired_ , and once he did the buzzing and scratching would fill his ears and haunt his attempts at sleep. The best sleep he’d had since being dragged into this pit was when his body would pass out to escape the pain and strain of the tools to his skin. In fact, the deepest sleep he’s had up to this day since being shipped out was when these captors burned him.

He tried to remember when that was.

_-It was with a cattle prod or something-_ They’d heated it for God knows how long in a fire before touching him with it. From what he could feel they were carving it into his back, and the pain becoming so overbearing that he passed out just as they slid it down towards his ass. It was impossible to say how long he’d slept like that, but when he woke up the only things keeping him from feeling refreshed were his current situation and the sting of his wounds desperately trying to heal themselves.

He feared for his men really, for if his _greatest **solace**_ in this hell hole was a good night’s sleep due to passing out from pain then what horrors befell them? Sometimes when the stains weren’t enough of a focus and the scratching was too much he would imagine what sorts of things were being done to them. Maybe, he hoped, they were just being left alone in cells to rot; only being kept alive so that they could be used as incentive for corporation from someone “with information” like him.

It wasn’t like he actually _had_ anything to tell their captors, but that lie was what kept any of them alive _this_ long. Besides, they wouldn't believe he had nothing to tell them after all this time; they'd just beat him harder if he denied having information. Of the worst things he could do in this stained room was the anticipation he would build to the next questioning.

There would be nothing worse than tuning in to every _little_ sound and hoping that it doesn’t get any **louder** than it is. When that happens he flinches at every jolt of electricity of the light above, and even the rattling of his own chains gives him a good, _cold_ , sweat. It was even better when his fear would become a reality and the footsteps outside that rusted metal door would get louder and louder before the door would screech open.

_-That sound would be ear shattering _reality_ every time.-_ The rusted metal hinges would grind against each other, screaming in agony as they scraped away some of their own corrosion. He would cringe at that sound, trying to crawl into himself and escape it; his captors would find that as a good sign of breaking to their will . . .

He suddenly thought of his wrists; the dried blood around them being his only protection from infection, and the inclination to attempt getting his hands loose arose. It was a want for freedom that itched at his veins. If he struggled against the chains the metal might scratch it for him, and maybe his skin would finally wear down enough to slip the restraints. He held his own hand and swallowed his feelings of freedom.

Where would he even run to if he _did_ get loose? The door locked from the outside, and no handle presented itself in this awful room. If he _did_ manage to get out what was to say that there wasn’t someone in the hall? He didn’t even know where his men were being kept or where they were this compound was exactly. If he did get out and find his men, how far could all of them even go before passing out or getting recaptured? There was no way that a squad of _injured_ men could escape with such odds. No way in heaven or hell.

_***CreEeeEEEaeeeeeEEEEEE-*** _

_-nofootsteps-_ His body snapped to the wall, hands jolting up to shield his ear drums. The sudden pain threw his bound wrists about as blood oozed from the fresh rips in his skin and trickled down his fingers.

His mind was white like the light rushing in from the hall, his eyes clenched shut to keep from the pain that would come to his pupils if he stared for even a moment. That awful screech echoed through his ear drums over every sound until the door was finally opened. All he could hear in the sudden silence was the erratic beats of his own heart. Nothing could be heard over his heart, not his erratic breathing or his chains light clinks as the strained against the floor bolts; not even the footsteps closing in on his position.

_***EreeREEreeeEEa-slam*** _

The sound ripped through his body, tearing at his ear drums and pulling at his wrists as they struggle to protect him. The strain of his shoulders began to set in again, the muscles stretched back too far for too long. It was a throbbing sensation as his blood struggled to pump past to his arms. This time that _slight_ cut off was a good thing. Anything less and his wrists would bleed him dry before he had a chance to develop tetanus. The smell of roasted chicken broke his thoughts, his mouth salivating to accept the food he knew wasn't coming.

_-Can't stop the body's natural response to hunger now can I?-_ As his stomach growled he realized he screwed himself with his own mind yet again, for the feeling of hunger returned. He couldn't remember the last time he ate anything the wasn't a mixture of his own blood, dirt, and gum scrapings.

Well, he could... But that disgusting gruel wasn't food. It was nothing but a pile of grey slop meant to stay the need for food and plant a brick in the pit of his stomach so he felt like vomiting every time they hit him. He took a deep breath to calm down both his nerves and the feeling of his stomach beginning the workings of digesting itself. The roasted chicken hit his nose again, a fragrance that arose nothing but desperation and longing.

He kept his eyes shut, not wanting to see who'd come to greet him today.... Or tonight.... Perhaps it was noon. Some of the tossers liked to fill their bellies with chicken before coming to spit on him. They're fingers would still be covered in the grease as they slid over his skin. Underneath the chicken he could smell the musk of a man not bathed in a week or so, and his ears tuned in to their muttering to one another. Incoherent things really, for as it were he didn't speak the language.

The metal sang to him another reminder that his wrists were bound as he began to shift in place, the stain on his shoulders becoming more apparent by the second. He could feel where the muscle probably tore a tad, and his right was still partially dislocated. His captors looked down on him as he shuffled, waiting for him to cringe into the corner again.

Their caged rat was so disgusting. His overgrown dirt-blonde hair clinging to his forehead and matted down in knots. The way his pants were worn at the knees and dirtier than a painted whore, blood stains smeared around the edges of the wear and tear from his scrapped up knees. All those bruises spread over his arms and chest, the only thing blocking a few of them being his torn open undershirt.

That was the funniest part for them; his shirt torn open like a short-sleeved vest. If that wasn't enough to get a giggle then his vitals opened up for clean blows was a hoot when it came down to it. His arms splayed back as he's forced onto his knees or ass so that he can't defend himself from _anything_. It was a sight to see.

 

> The only sight they hadn't seen, in fact, was the Captains groveling.

 

**_*schleclack*_ **

The noise was new and close, causing the Captains eyes to snap open and his wrists to jolt. A fresh trickle of blood ran down his fingertips. In front of him was a new sight in this rotted cell, a half eaten leg of roasted chicken. It lay in the dirt just two feet away from him; the chain binding his hands was three feet long. However, that was three feet in itself, and that length was already cut by a foot when he was chained to the floor as he was now. He'd never reach that food as anything but a struggling dog.

> "Something wrong? You look so hungry," A gruff voice spoke down at him with a heavy accent.

Captain Watson glared up at his captor, a pure disdain shooting from his eyes. he could feel his back arch just to look up, and his neck was stretched out just to look into the bastards eyes. He pushed his wrists against the rusting cuffs, the pain being his only salvation to silence. His eyes were opened wide now, mouth down-turned to an awful frown and brow giving him a look of absolute fury from the angle he was looked down on.

> "Ooh, what's that look for? Did you eat a finger not to starve?"

The chuffed cock-up spoke with the same distinction to his voice, his hand violently grabbing John's hair as he finished speaking. With a strong jerk of his arm he pushed the poor sod as far into the floor as he could without ripping his arms out of the sockets. Pain shot through Watson's neck down his spine before focusing on the sting of his wrists as the skin was ripped back by the cuffs edges. Blood rushed from his veins, dripping off both his hands and the cuffs onto the floor and the back of his pants.

His shirt hung down onto the dirt floor, the white becoming even more obscured by the dust. The cock-up holding him down looked at his hands, his free hand going back and pulling on each finger to count it. John's hands flinched with each touch, and this amused the man.

John grit his teeth and and worked through the pain the only way he knew how: By pretending he was somewhere else; ignoring whatever was making him so in pain. 

With each yank of his fingers his reaction became worse, his arms jerking to rattle his floor-chain until all ten were accounted for. 

> "What a shame..." John kept his head down as his larger captor spoke. 
> 
> "What is it Azar?" The younger man, leaning against the wall by the door, spoke with an accent equally as strong as his superiors. 

This, 'Azar' as he was called, walked over and leaned against the wall with his companion; one on each side of the door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar, placing it gently between his lips before speaking with his hands. 

> "...He has all his fingers." Azar finished, a sound of disappointment in his voice. 
> 
> "I was hoping," he continued on, "That he'd be missing at least one," He pulled out a match and struck it on his boot, taking a moment to light his cigar. "That way I could make him eat another off his good hand to make it even," 

Watson listened as both men snickered between one another, muttering in their own language. Apparently their conversation was no longer for him to hear. 

He tried focusing on the floor, his dried blood speckled before his person. The sting in his wrists came to light again, drowning his thoughts in waves of pain travelling up the nerves of his arms to his brain stem. Now came a light head ache, something that he knew would only get worse as the hour progressed. 

The men both glanced over at him, turning to one another again to speak briefly. Azar chuckled, turned on his heal and stepped towards John. 

_***CreEeeEEaeeEEEE-*** _

John tried to tuck his head into his neck, scrunching into a ball as tightly as his strained body would allow. That awful sounds overpowered the footsteps coming towards him, and-

_***EreREreeEa-cack*** _

He flinched, chains rattling with the jerk of his arms. His eyes opened, pupils already adjusting to the light. Azar squatted in front of him, cigar smoke plumed in his face. John couldn't help but scrunch up his nose and try putting his face to his chest. His eyes shut again, trying to escape the burn of the soot the smoke carried. 

Azar reveled in the expression a moment, content with his victims displeasure. He blew a puff of smoke from his nose, and lifted his right hand to the poor soldiers face. He did this slowly, for it was funny to him that John could not notice with closed eyes. Being an impatient man, he snatched John's chin ad yanked his head up. 

Dear Watson squinted his eyes at the man, neck stretched out and jaw already sore from the strength of his hand. 


End file.
